Experiment
by JackOwens1860
Summary: Provisional one-shot from Alfred's POV. Everyone asks him for the same story: when did he know Bruce would never recover from the death of his parents? And he always lies. To protect them. But here is the truth. Alfred recalls the incident with an eight-year-old Bruce that changed everything. Rated M for dark themes and self-harm. Please read and review.


**Author's Note: Provisional one-shot from Alfred's POV. Everyone asks him for the same story: when did he know Bruce would never recover from the death of his parents? And he always lies. To protect them. But here is the truth. Alfred recalls the incident with an eight-year-old Bruce that changed everything.**

 **Please read and review.**

 **Enjoy.**

 **Experiment**

 **Alfred**

They have all asked me at some point. Dick. Jason. Tim. Barbara. Even Damian. They all want to know the same thing, hear the same story. They ask about when I knew Master Bruce would never recover fully from the deaths of his parents. And, to my shame, I always lie. I have told them all that I knew the night I collected him from the police station. I told them that it was when I looked into his eyes and saw the abyss staring back at me, in place of life. They always leave it at that, content I have divulged not only enough, but also that I have told the truth on the matter. But, the truth is I did not know that night. The event was only hours old, the emotions still raw and bleeding profusely. All I really saw when looking into his eyes that evening was a boy wrestling with thoughts and feelings he did not understand. I was hopeful that some form of healing could take place. Even after the funeral I was hopeful he would find himself again.

That came the night I knew. He would never recover from the trauma. I remember it was late, perhaps as late as ten-thirty in the evening. It was raining heavily. It had been for days. The ground outside was too sodden for walks. As a consequence, Master Bruce had spent many hours indoors. Alone. I went to check he was settled for the night and knocked on the door.

"Come in." He had said in the hollow and lifeless tone I became accustomed to in the days after the funeral. I recall he was sitting by the window with his back to me. All the lights were out and the room was bathed in darkness.

"Is there anything you require, Sir?" I said, assuming he was brooding and nothing else. He only considered the offer for a moment before shaking his head.

"No thank you, Alfred. Please leave me." I remember that I had already turned my back on him when he spoke again. "You disappoint me, Alfred." His voice, numb for so long, was suddenly bitter. I noted the change immediately.

"What do you mean by that, Master Bruce? Have I failed in my duties to you?"

"You have. Tonight was an experiment. You failed."

"How so?" I switched on the light. He remained facing the window. There was a sigh, perhaps of pity or maybe contempt. Even to this day, I cannot be sure.

"What have I been doing in here, Alfred? Do you know?" He was still dressed despite the late hour. I remember his shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow and how odd this was. He hated informality, even at that young age. I cleared my throat.

"It is not my place to ask, Sir. I am your servant. If you should require anything, you need only call."

"And what if I should need you but I cannot call? What then?" This was not a conversation we had ever discussed in the past. It sounded very much like he was talking about having an accident, something I considered impossible in the given circumstances.

"I…don't quite follow, Master Bruce. I check on you every hour. If you were in distress, I would know."

"But that was the purpose of my experiment, Alfred. I wanted to see if you would know I was in trouble. But you don't. You don't know anything." Again, the bitterness. Venomous intent on his last words. I still thought we were having some sort of debate. My response was not well measured.

"That is hardly fair, Sir. I know grief manifests itself in different ways in different people. I know you have wanted space to reflect and have given you such liberties. I want you to get better. I know time is a great healer too, even if it does not seem possible right now."

"If you know all these things, Alfred, why has this happened to me without your knowledge?" He stood up and turned towards me. My eyes widened in horror. The underside of his left arm was covered in blood from multiple cuts. His right hand held a pocket knife loosely, also covered in blood. He had cut himself. Deliberately. Repeatedly. An eight-year-old boy. I did not think he even knew of such practices. Where would he possibly learn about self-harm? This initial sight was enough to render me speechless. But this was not the worst thing about this scene. The worst thing was his eyes. That was when I saw the abyss staring back at me, the void where normal emotion once lived. There were no tears. There was no sign he felt anything at all, only disappointment. "Do you understand why you failed my experiment, Alfred? Can you see why?"

"Master Bruce, I…"

"What if I had gone further, Alfred? Gouged out my eyes or cut out my tongue? What then? Would you still say you were only a servant and not responsible?" I moved towards him in lieu of words. They would have failed me anyway. He stepped back. "Did I tell you to move? Did I?" He snapped. I am glad to say I recovered my senses in time. I pulled out my unsoiled handkerchief and pressed it against his bloody arm before venturing to say anything.

"This is not a game, Bruce." I recall saying, taking his knife and dropping formalities to make clear how serious the issue was. "You cannot go around hurting yourself like this. If you need to speak to someone, I will find you someone. But you cannot do this. It is not okay." Nothing registered in his eyes. There was no realisation that what he had done had frightened me. There was no sign he cared for my feelings at all.

"I want my knife cleaned, Alfred. Do you understand?" That statement chilled me to the bone. His only concern at that moment was for his pocket knife. Nothing else. He used to whittle with it, before the unpleasantness. He once cut his thumb and cried for twenty minutes at the pain. His mother had to console him. I remember contrasting that moment vividly with the horror unfolding before my eyes, the metamorphosis from a happy child into what he would eventually become…

The Batman.

I think it is obvious why I lie about such a discovery. Master Bruce never hurt himself again after that. He told me the cuts were deliberately shallow, so they would heal without scarring. An eight-year-old boy had considered such things carefully, meticulously. He said it was just an experiment, to test me. It was scientific curiosity, something his father had instilled in him and his mother had encouraged. Needless to say, if I had neglected him before that moment, I never left his side again. I was terrified of what he might do in the name of 'experimentation'. It gave me nightmares, horrible visions of finding him hanging in the stables or face-down in the swimming pool. I would wake several times a week and frantically rush to his room, convinced this was the night he tried another 'experiment'. Of course, he was always asleep. He was always unharmed. But his one experiment had done what it set out to do…keep me too scared to leave him alone. And if I told anyone, anyone whatsoever, that my continued loyalty to Master Bruce through his tenure as a masked vigilante was predicated on that callous act of calculated mutilation orchestrated by an eight-year-old child…

It is not worth mentioning. It would only upset them. They love him dearly. As I do. They want to think the best of him. As I do. They know he will let them down in some way or another. They forgive him for such failings. And, regardless of what has happened since, that night will always be the darkest of our entire relationship. Not because he cut himself. Not because I failed to notice immediately. It was because he did it to make me look foolish, and nothing else. He sliced into his own flesh to highlight my lack of attention. He did not do it to make himself feel better or give a sense of control over a changing landscape. He did it to spite me. A boy who had been a screaming infant only eight years earlier, had concluded the best way to manipulate me was through self-harm and the threat of further violence.

He has since apologised. On his twelfth birthday, he told me after the festivities, if you could call a boy and his butler listening to classical music and drinking tea such, that he was sorry for hurting me. I did not believe him. I forgave him, but I did not believe he was truly repentant. His apology, and the manner in which he delivered it, sounded forced and hollow. But by that point I had long stopped being surprised by his total lack of emotion or joy. It was not grief anymore. It was simply him. He was a joyless child. As horrible as it may sound, I accepted that at the time. And I glad when he insisted on a boarding school in Switzerland for his formal education. I enjoyed time away from him.

Of course, he did get better. He wrote letters to me. They were informative naturally, but not totally lacking in personal expression. He stopped writing 'from' and substituted 'love' in closing his letters before he turned thirteen. He added 'dear' before my name to open them shortly after his fourteenth birthday. It almost made his correspondence sound affectionate in nature. When he returned home during holidays, I would receive hugs that lacked warmth. We would take walks that were not dominated by silence. When he was fifteen, we went to Paris for a weekend. I remember it being the first time in years he had smiled. We were in the Louvre, admiring the Old Masters. He was regarding the Mona Lisa and asked if I thought she looked like his mother.

"Only if she were sucking a particularly bitter lemon." I replied to earn my smile.

"You are terribly cruel, Alfred. Promise you'll never change." He told me. Our rapport to that point had been characterised by acidic jibes and remarks against one another, something I believe we both delighted in. But that was the first time he had offered something beneath the veneer. I did not ruin it by giving any grand gestures. I remember I ventured to ruffle his hair and said,

"Only if you promise you will try to change, Master Bruce."

"I promise, Alfred."

He apologised for his 'experiment' again on his sixteenth birthday. Again, in something of a tradition, it was just him, I and a birthday cake. The tone was less hollow and forced, but the words were the same. I still did not believe him. But by then it no longer mattered. Despite his personality changes and general demeanour, his dourness and aloof nature, I had learned to love him as I once did before his parents' deaths. Shameful I know, but I was glad to have made the journey back. That night was also defined by the one occasion he allowed human comfort. I recall being in the library with him, reading separate books. I believe it was poets that evening, Ginsberg mostly. He put his book down and wandered over to me on the window seat.

"What are you reading, old friend?" He had taken to calling me 'old friend' in his correspondence that spring and has continued the practice ever since. In response, I had taken to referring to him as 'old boy', although I dropped the moniker when he turned eighteen. I told him it was Lord Byron. "Would you read some to me?" His mother was the only one he ever enjoyed reading aloud. Since her death, the only things I had read aloud to him were business statements and solicitor's correspondence. I told him I would be delighted and genuinely meant it. He sat beside me and I began to read 'She Walks in Beauty'. As I graduated past the first verse, he rested his head against my shoulder. I recall flinching in surprise and stopped reading altogether. He told me to continue. I remember looking down into his eyes and seeing a spark, a fleeting glimpse of emotion. I moved my arm out to let his head fall against my chest and then put it around his shoulder, albeit very tentatively for fear of startling him into flight like a frightened deer. And he softened into the gesture, as if actually savouring the moment. I was too stunned to do anything but read.

Eight poems. I read eight whole poems from start to end without so much as a sound from him. Eight years. Eight years I had been waiting to offer any shred of comfort to him only to be first denied, then discouraged and finally rendered indifferent to the idea. It was a landmark. I was proud. Of him. Of me. Of the human spirit triumphing over tragedy. After the eighth poem, the aptly appropriate 'When We Two Parted', he pushed away from me and nodded in appreciation.

"You read as well as my mother, Alfred. Perhaps better even, it's hard to remember now." It was the highest compliment I had ever received from him at that point. I was touched. "I could have been something, old friend. I could have been something wonderful." It was odd to hear a boy of sixteen talk as if his best days were already behind him. I patted his shoulder and assured him his best days were to come. He smiled wistfully. "I will be sorry to disappoint you, Alfred. I really will. You are…my best and only friend." I vividly remember his eyes welling with the threat of tears upon finishing that ominous statement. I put my book down and cradled him in my arms for the longest time, convinced that his personal breakthrough moment was here. I thought he would cry and the healing process could finally begin in earnest. But he did not cry. He did not even weep. I let go him and he just nodded affirmatively. "Very sorry indeed."

I thought perhaps he meant suicide. But of course, he meant vanishing without trace for almost eight years after turning eighteen. Silly old man. When he returned shortly after his twenty-fifth birthday, I discovered how far his first experiment had really gone towards making the Batman. That coldness I had observed at eight years old, that manipulation of human emotion, formed the nucleus of his identity as Batman. Psychological warfare is his alter ego's hallmark on the streets of Gotham. I think the origins of that weapon would terrify the criminal element of this city more than the man himself. It certainly does me.

Tonight is now. I am in the cave, awaiting his return from routine patrol duties. Damian did not wish to join him. He would not say why, perhaps another disagreement. So, I wait for him. After what seems like an age, I see the car headlights in the tunnel. Two minutes later, he emerges from the vehicle park, looking wholly unscathed by the night's activities. He seems surprised by my presence, although he should not be. It has been fifteen years since the first night. I have resigned and left many times. I always return. I always wait for him. I already know one of us will die awaiting the arrival of the other. I am at peace with it. I believe he is too. He pulls back his cowl upon reaching the command level, simultaneously proving Bruce Wayne still exists and is no more insane than usual.

"You should be in bed, Alfred."

"Just stick me in a hospice if you think I am beyond my sell-by date, Master Bruce. What next, warm milk and rubber sheets?" He smiles at me, a gesture that comes far easier these days than ever before.

"I could hire you a helper if you like."

"Do so and I will slap you so hard your bones will rattle. Are you injured?"

"No, old friend, only my pride."

"I can't help you there, Sir, but I will make a judgement on whether you have physical injuries or not. Over to the medical bay."

He sheds his upper layers to showcase a physique trained to the limits of human development and tested beyond all known breaking points, as dozens of scars will attest. I used to bathe him as a toddler. He despised his nannies. If his mother were unavailable, I was the only substitute. How that small soft body became this hulking, sinewy mass is something I still do not fully understand. When I check the underside of his left arm, I still recall the first 'experiment'. This is largely because the boy miscalculated. The cuts were too deep after all. There are faint scars, stressed out over what must barely qualify as a human appendage, such is the size of his arm. I have watched them grow more distorted and fainter with each passing year, but never forget what act created them. His other scars have forgetful stories, mired in terrorist plots, maniacal death-traps and a lifetime of extreme risk. They are a dime a dozen. The legacy of his 'experiment' lives on, etched into my memory with unwanted clarity. I run my fingers over them.

"I am sorry, Alfred." He says a moment later. I look up to see the same eyes that have been staring at me for forty years. The area surrounding them has changed, but the eyes are the same. I narrow mine in response. "It was just an experiment." He still remembers too. Thirty-two years and he still knows exactly why I cannot forget them. It haunts me.

"I don't believe you, Master Bruce. I never have." I tell him without any spite over the matter. I have none to give. He gifts me a sad smile.

"I know."

"Then why continuing apologising? Every few years you offer your apologies and every time I forgive you. Why bother when you know I have never believed you?"

"Because one day, perhaps you will. I want to be sorry, Alfred. I do. I just…I'm still not there yet." He is a baffling creature. He feels guilt, I know. He has emotions. He has regrets. But none of them pertain to his experiment. Why he wants to convince me otherwise is incomprehensible. I sigh lethargically whilst continuing my examination. There are fresh bruises on his ribs.

"We don't need to talk about this, Sir. You are sorry for many other things in your life, the majority of which are far more deserving of your guilt and culpability than an incident almost three-and-a-half decades old. I would rather you stop apologising for that and just let the matter rest. Besides which, I'll be dead long before you convince me of your shame over the 'experiment'."

"You don't mind if I try anyway, do you, old friend?"

"Oh, by all means, Master Bruce, try away to convince me. After all," I say snapping off my gloves to signal an end to the examination, "You are nothing if not stubborn."

They always ask me when I knew he would never recover fully. I always lie to them and say immediately. The truth is I knew he would never recover fully after the 'experiment'. But he is still trying. Perhaps one day, many years from now, they will ask me when it was, when I knew he would never recover fully. And maybe, just maybe, I might to be able to say:

'he recovered the moment he said he was sorry about the experiment…and I believed him.'


End file.
